


The Best of All Possible Martins

by fatal_drum



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Accidental Bondage, Fluff, Hand Massage, Hug Jon Sims 2k19, Hug Martin Blackwood 2k19, M/M, Neighbor au, Pet Shop AU, Pokemon AU, Sex Shop AU, Spa au, Trans Martin Blackwood, Web Martin Blackwood, Werewolf AU, You fools! All Martins are the best possible Martin, accidentally terrifying the love of your life with spiders, canon typical spiders, canon-typical stalking, coffee shop AU, gratuitous literary references, manicures, musician au, occasional angst because Martin is a lonely boy, so many meetcutes, someone please stop me, trans Jonathan Sims, tumblr ficlets, various appearances from other characters, veterinarian Martin Blackwood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-02-29 19:53:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18785080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatal_drum/pseuds/fatal_drum
Summary: A series of AU ficlets involving one Martin Blackwood, also known as the best boy. First up: web!Martin.





	1. Oh, what a web we weave (web Martin)

Jon woke up feeling unusually snug. Ever since he’d realized he could substitute statements for basic bodily maintenance, he’d taken to doing so as much as possible, often falling asleep at his desk. After all, it wasn’t as if Martin were there to stop him. Perhaps some especially pathetic part of him thought Martin would spontaneously appear if he took poor enough care of himself. If he was being honest with himself, he’d say it was because he thought he deserved it.

Jon was rarely honest with himself.

Yawning, he rolled over and got out of bed. Or tried to. For some reason, his arms wouldn’t move. Nor would the rest of his body. Keen to investigate, he opened his eyes, then screamed with all his being.

Everywhere he looked, he saw sticky grey ropes. Some were finer than hairs, others as thick as his fingers. They dangled from the ceiling, crossed the walls, and formed a labyrinth across the floor. He was suspended in them, bound from shoulder to ankle, just tightly enough to prevent his escape. Spiders wandered freely along the webs. A few crossed his body, and one even dangled from his hair. He screamed, and screamed again.

To his surprise, the spiders on his body fled, seeking out a much larger spider in the corner. They wriggled their tiny legs at it, making small chittering noises, and he could have sworn one gestured at him. For lack of anything better to do, he kept screaming. He probably couldn't stop if he wanted to, and right now, he didn't want to.

After a small eternity, he heard the sound of footsteps, craning his head to see none other than Martin. For a moment, he forgot to scream, or even to breathe. Part of him wondered if this was a trauma-induced hallucination.

“Jon!” Martin cried. “What— _oh._ Oh, dear.”

“What are you ‘oh, dearing’ for? Get me _down!”_

Martin flushed. “I’m so sorry, Jon. This is all my fault.”

“All your…”

Looking between the webs and his erstwhile assistant, he put two and two together and felt the blood drain from his face.

 _They’re sort of...cute, actually,_ Martin had said once. _Furry little things._

_I enjoyed weaving my web._

Jon could hear his heart pounding in his ears.

_Mister Spider wants another guest._

In his mind’s eye, he saw the familiar pages, long since seared into his memory: the fat, swollen spider, and the horrible red stain. The boy snatched by a coarsely furred leg to disappear forever behind the heavy wooden door, all those years ago.

He’d been living on borrowed time.

“Martin, what are you…” He swallowed, his throat unspeakably dry. “What are you going to do to me?”

Martin blinked. “Get you...down?”

After a long moment of silence, Martin realized what Jon was thinking. 

“What? Oh, no!” he shook his head frantically. “No, I’m—I didn’t do it on, on _purpose!_ I was just thinking...well.”

“ _What were you thinking,_ Martin?” Jon threw the full force of his compulsion at him, with only a twinge of guilt.

“I was thinking it would be nice if you couldn’t throw yourself into danger all the time, you bloody great idiot!”

They both stood silently, stunned.”

“I...what?”

Martin looked down, biting his lip. “The...the spiders are my friends. They, they like me. They listen to me. And I was telling them how sad I was that you always throw yourself into trouble… but I didn’t tell them to do this!”

One of the spiders clicked at Martin, and he shook his head.

“No, I’m not mad. We just can’t be doing that to our friends, okay?”

“I’m...still your friend, then?”

“Are you _thick?”_ Martin demanded, then flushed a deeper red. “Of- of course! I will _always_ care for you.”

“Then...perhaps you could set me free?”

Biting his lip, Martin ran a single index finger down Jon’s body, parting the spider silk as cleanly as a knife. Shuddering, Jon brushed the webs off, feeling the twitch of phantom spider legs on his skin, though he could see none on his person. The spiders seemed to have retreated a respectful distance once he started screaming. (But spiders didn’t _do_ that, some long-dead rational part of his brain shouted. He pushed it aside. It wasn’t the maddest thing to happen since he’d had this job.)

Martin brushed a stray bit of web out of Jon’s hair, and Jon shivered.

“I’m sorry my friends got out of hand, Jon. I’ll do my best to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Are you alright?”

Jon nodded mutely. The silence hung in the air for a long moment, and Martin moved to get up.

“Wait!”

Jon’s hand clutched Martin’s sleeve, and he stopped. Martin stared down at him, clearly expecting him to say something, but Jon couldn’t find the words.

“I’ve got to go, Jon,” Martin said gently.

“Please. Just a few more minutes.” Jon looked down at his hand on Martin’s sleeve, resigned but unable to stop himself. “I need—”

Suddenly he was being wrapped in Martin’s arms, his head guided to lay on Martin’s shoulder. Jon shuddered and clutched at Martin’s sides as Martin stroked his hair, a slow, hypnotic rhythm.

“I—care about you,” Jon said. “So much. Whatever you’re doing, please, just—take care.”

“I will, Jon,” Martin said against his hair. “I will.”

Afterwards, Martin guided him to the cot, staying until Jon managed to fall asleep. When he woke, there was a fresh statement and a protein bar on his desk.

When he saw the spider in the corner, he gave it a nod before going back to work.


	2. the doctor is in (veterinarian Martin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Veterinary surgeon Dr. Martin Blackwood meets the Admiral, and his very rude (but oddly attractive) petsitter, Jon.

Martin was tying off the last sutures for his rabbit spay when Basira popped her head into the operating theater.

“Warning, boss, we’ve got a live one,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Beg your pardon?”

Then Martin heard it.

“What do you _mean_ he’s busy?” someone was shouting, loudly enough to be heard in surgery. “My cat is sick _now!_  What kind of bloody hospital is this?”

“I see,” Martin said, peeling off his gloves. “Tim, keep an eye on Princess Flufferbuns and give me a shout if her O2 sat’s gone down, alright?”

“In other words, do my fucking job?” Tim griped, adjusting the rabbit’s blood pressure cuff.

“Whatever you say, Tim.” Martin pulled the surgical gown over his head, setting it on the table as Basira handed him a chart.

“What seems to be the problem?” he asked her.

“Not a clue,” she said cheerfully. “This idiot won’t stop shouting or let go of the cat long enough for me to find out.”

Taking a deep breath, Martin opened the door to Consult Room Two.

The man inside looked to be about his age, though his hair was streaked with grey and pulled into a messy bun. He was clutching an extremely fat orange tabby like a teddy bear, which would have been cute if not for the worry creasing his brow.  

“Where’s the damned doctor?” he demanded. “I’m not risking the Admiral’s health on some intern!”

“Allow me to introduce myself,” Martin said, extending a hand. “I’m Martin Blackwood, and I’m the veterinary surgeon on duty.”

The man blinked in consternation. “Oh,” he said. He didn’t take Martin’s hand.

“And this is…?” Martin asked, gesturing to the cat, who mewed at him.

“The Admiral,” the man said, relaxing his death grip on the creature.

“What seems to be the problem, Mister…?”

“Sims. Jon Sims,” the man said stiffly. “And it’s his leg. It’s quite swollen.”

“Do you mind if I have a look, Mr. Sims?”

Jon deposited the Admiral on the table. The cat immediately walked up and butted his head against Martin’s hand, demanding scritches that Martin willingly gave. True to Jon’s word, there was a large swelling over his right shoulder. A pair of small scabs told Martin all he needed to know as he palpated the area.

“Does the Admiral like to get in fights with other kitties?” Martin asked.

“He’s a bit scrappy, yes,” Jon admitted. “Are you saying you know what’s wrong?”

“It seems like a pretty standard cat bite abscess. Once we drain it and get some antibiotics in him, he should be good as new.”

Jon sagged with relief. “Oh, thank god. Georgie would murder me if anything happened to the Admiral while she was gone.”

“Is Georgie your girlfriend, then?” Martin asked, finding himself just a bit disappointed.

“What? Oh, no. Ex girlfriend. We’re just good friends now.”

“I see,” Martin said, before forcing himself to focus. “Anyway. Let’s get the Admiral sorted, shall we?”

It didn’t take long to drain and flush the abscess, and the Admiral purred through all of it. Even Tim warmed to him, and he hated cats as a rule. Martin was almost sorry to see him go.

“Here you go, Mr. Sims,” Martin said, depositing the purring cat into Jon’s lap.

“Please, call me Jon,” he said. “And, er. I may have overreacted a bit earlier. Can you convey my apologies to the nurse?”

“Of course,” Martin said.

“And, er.” Jon flushed a bit, a charming look on his freckled face. “Perhaps I could make it up to you? Over dinner?”

Martin felt his ears grow hot. His pulse raced, and he found himself completely speechless.

“Or, uh,” Jon said. “If not, that’s fine. I’ll just, er...leave my card, and if you’d like to call me, you...can.”

Martin nodded quickly, still at a loss for words.

“Well, then. It’s been nice meeting you, Dr. Blackwood.”

“Call me Martin,” he blurted out.

Jon smiled, and Martin felt something melt in his chest.

“Nice meeting you, Martin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have no idea what vet offices are like outside the US and Brazil, so forgive my Americanisms. If you're curious, Tim and Basira are battle-hardened veterinary nurses; Basira's wife, Dr. Tonner, is on her lunch break; Sasha and Melanie are receptionists; and Elias and Peter frequently bring in their champion purebred angora rabbits. 
> 
> If you'd like to see more Martin AUs, give me a shout!


	3. the wand chooses the wizard (trans Martin/sex shop AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin arrives at the Magnus Erotic Archive and Boutique with a mission. Jon is there to help.

“I’m going on break,” Sasha announced, picking up her satchel. “You good to hold down the fort?”

Jon nodded over his book. It was a Monday morning, and most people did not find themselves in urgent need of a riding crop or vibrator on Mondays. It was a good day if you preferred to avoid people, and a bad one if you hoped to make a profit, but that was Elias's problem and not his. He had the shop to himself for a good ten minutes before he heard the door chime.

The customer at the door was in his mid to late twenties like Jon, but much taller, and wearing a faded Siouxsie and the Banshees t-shirt and torn jeans. He had a head of curly brown hair pulled into a loose ponytail, and his face was round and freckled. He already had the beginnings of a blush across his cheeks, and his posture was stooped. He could not have been more clearly out of his element, and Jon smirked a bit.

“Welcome to Magnus,” he intoned, “where all your darkest desires can be revealed.”

Truth be told, Jon rarely used Elias’s stupid slogan, but it had its desired effect: the man flushed from his ears to his neck, eyes widening.

"My name is Jon. And who might _you_ be?"

"M-martin," the customer stammered. 

"Welcome, Martin," Jon said. "How can I help you?"

“I, er...” Martin looked around the shop, but each sight his eyes fixed on seemed to embarrass him more, so he settled his gaze on Jon's shoes.

“Are you in need of a vibrator, or anal beads?” Jon suggested helpfully.

Martin's shook his head frantically.

“Perhaps a fleshlight, or pornographic magazines?”

“What's a—?”

“We also have nipple clamps, if you need those.”

 _“I need a cock!”_  Martin shouted, surprising them both. He then clapped a hand over his own mouth, looking horrified.

“I see,” Jon said, after a long moment. “The glory hole is down the street.”

“I mean, for me! You know, like...for wearing?”

Jon felt a stab of guilt. Ribbing perverts was one thing, but this was another.

“You mean a packer,” he said.

“Yes! One of those. Do you have them?”

The hopeful expression on Martin's face was...surprisingly endearing. As if Jon had the power to answer all his hopes and dreams, and he was so grateful. He could see someone doing quite a lot to keep that look on his face.

“We have many,” Jon assured. “What sort would you like?”

Martin looked briefly panicked. “There are different kinds?”

“Follow me.”

Jon walked them over to the shelf that housed packers, binders, and other accessories. He was rather proud of the selection, as he periodically harassed Elias into ordering more. Given that no one else knew how to operate the inventory software, Elias tended to give him what he wanted.

“First, I’d consider what you need to do with it," he said. "Are you just packing, or do you want to use it at the toilets as well? Or for sex? They make some for all three, but honestly those can get pretty pricey, and not everyone likes them. I don’t need mine for sex or urinals, so I prefer these.” Jon pointed to his favorite brand.

“You mean, you’re—?”

“Yes.”

Martin visibly relaxed.

“There’s so many,” he said shyly. “How do you pick one?”

“It’s the wand that chooses the sorcerer,” Jon quipped.

Martin stared at him for a moment before bursting into giggles. His eyes sparkled, a rather pleasant shade of green, and Jon allowed himself a small smile back.

“Honestly? There’s no one, right answer. Feel free to pick them up, give them a squeeze. You don’t even have to pick one today if you're not sure. Would you like some space to get acquainted?”

Martin nodded eagerly, and Jon went back behind the counter and picked up his book.

When Martin finally returned, packer in hand, Jon checked him out, quietly entering his employee discount code for the purchase.

“So, er,” Jon began. “If you’d like to have my number, we can—?”

“—go out sometime?”

“I was going to say ‘talk.’ ”

Martin made a small, mortified sound.

“But if you’d like to get a coffee,” Jon continued, “my shift’s over in twenty minutes.”

“Oh,” Martin said. “Oh! I’d like that. I'd like it a lot!”

“The nearest coffee shop is The Eye,” Jon said. “It’s the one with the glory hole.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I've said previously, I am not an expert on trans issues. Please let me know if I have said or written anything off the mark. Thanks again to @willowbilly for their advice!
> 
> Technically the only part of this that's AU is meeting Jon at a sex shop, since there's nothing in canon to specify he's cis.


	4. old stancher! you...remain (coffee shop AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon has writer's block and a nosebleed. Luckily, his waiter Martin is prepared.

Jon’s fingers drummed against the side of his laptop in a frenetic rhythm, fueled by anxiety and espresso. He raked his hand through his hair, pushing his bangs out of his face as he stared at the screen. It remained stubbornly blank, in spite of his having stared at it for well over ten minutes.

“Can I get you anyth—?” someone interrupted.

“No!” he snapped. “I’m _clearly_ busy.”

“Right-o,” the waiter said, moving on.

He was vaguely aware of someone snickering in the background, but he ignored them as he resumed his present occupation of tapping and staring, followed by staring and tapping. He pictured himself handing a stack of blank pages to Professor Hussain, who stared at him coldly before pointing a single finger at the door. He would be banned from academic circles altogether, cursed to wander the streets of London alone and unemployed, as his grandmother had predicted.

It was around this time that he noticed the blood dripping onto his keyboard.

“Fuck!”

He cast about for something to staunch the bleeding, snatching the paper doily from under his half-eaten scone. It did absolutely nothing, apart from smearing the blood across his face.

“Here,” a voice said.

Jon looked up to see a hand holding a tissue. He snatched it up immediately, squashing it against his dripping nose. It was incredibly soft and smooth against his skin, and it smelled of aloe.

“Fank you,” he managed.

“No problem. I’ve got allergies myself, so. You know.”

Jon tentatively let up the pressure for a second, feeling the telltale drip, then pressed harder.

“Tight deadline?”

Jon nodded, tissue still pressed to his face.

“I’ll be right back.”

The waiter set the rest of the pack of tissues on Jon’s table, and Jon took a second one, wishing he could transcend the mortal plane and disappear in a haze of smoke, doctorate or no doctorate. Jon stared at his screen again, finding it persistently blank.

After a few minutes, the waiter returned with a cup of something hot and fragrant.

“Lavender and chamomile tea with honey, on the house.”

Jon released his death grip on the tissue, and after a moment with no major hemorrhaging, took a tentative sniff of the tea. It smelled heavenly.

“But there’s no caffeine,” he said reflexively.

The waiter patted him on the shoulder. “I’m afraid you’re beyond the help of caffeine, friend.”

Jon looked up, and up, and up. The waiter was tall in a way that made his pulse stutter, and he had very strong hands. He considered fainting for a brief moment, then discarded the notion.

“I mean, not that I’m assuming we’re friends," the waiter said, adjusting his spectacles. "I just—you know. Handkerchief solidarity.”

“Right. Handkerchief solidarity.” Jon said. 

They stayed there awkwardly for a moment, until a voice interrupted: “Martin, quit flirting and pick up these lattes!”

“C-coming, Mister Lukas!” Martin called, then looked back at Jon. “I’ll, uh. Be seeing you.”

“Thank you. For the tissues.” Jon picked up his cup. “And the tea.”

“You’re welcome,” Martin said, scurrying off to pick up more drinks.

Jon watched him hurry away, all the way up to the counter, where a stubbled man in a cable knit jumper gave Jon a wink. Then he turned his gaze right back to his laptop, because he wasn’t about to examine that interaction. Nope.

He took a sip of his tea, finding it surprisingly good for something with no caffeine. Sweet and soothing, but not too sweet. 

After a moment, he began to type.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beloved @oswobblepot/Seluvia was having a very bad day recently and requested this specific scenario (Jon with a nosebleed and Martin with the world's softest tissues). Thank you, love. <3 Title stolen from Samuel Beckett's _Endgame_ because I'm that bitch.
> 
> If you have a Martin AU you want to see, let me know, here or on [Tumblr](http://fataldrum.tumblr.com). The more Martins, the merrier. <3


	5. absolutely not (pet shop AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin's worried about his pet tarantula, Rosamund. Pet store worker Jon Sims knows a lot about exotic pets, but nightmarishly oversized spiders are a hard limit. Or are they?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a prompt by @cuttoothed: _Now I really need a companion AU where Jon is the vet and Martin comes in with his adorable fuzzy tarantula who is very sick. Jon is like n o p e._ I changed it up a bit for variety's sake, but I hope you like it!

“Mr. Blackwood, I mean this from the very bottom of my heart when I say it: no.” In case the customer mistook his meaning, Jon added. “No, no, no. Absolutely not.”

The customer’s face crumpled, and he pressed a hand to his mouth to contain a sob—the hand that wasn’t cradling that absolute nightmare he called a pet. The tarantula was covered in unnaturally glossy black fur, and it barely fit in his hand. Jon shuddered.

“Please, Jon!” he begged, biting his lip. “I haven’t got a lot of—well, _friends._  All I’ve got is Rosamund. I’ve had her for over five years, and I’ve never seen her like this.”

“Then perhaps she’s getting old,” Jon said, turning to continue restocking the shelf. Someone had to get those cat vitamins in the right order, and Tim was probably off seducing the electrical repairman, or the girl who sold hand-carved parrot toys.

“They can live for thirty years!” the customer insisted.

“Point taken,” Jon conceded. “However, Mr. Blackwood—”

“Please, call me Martin,” he pleaded.

“Fine. _Martin.”_ He turned to face the client again. “I don’t. Touch. Spiders. If you come back tomorrow, I’m sure Annabelle can have a look at it.”

 _“Her!”_ Martin insisted. “Her name is Rosamund, and she might not _make_ it to tomorrow.”

Martin’s eyes were wet, unshed tears pooling on his ridiculously long lashes. His lip gave a little wobble. Jon’s resolve was melting dangerously fast. Because he didn't want to watch a grown man weep in a pet store, and not for any other reason. 

Jon sighed. “...Put it on the table.”

Martin set the tarantula down as gently as he would an heirloom teacup. Instead of exploring her surroundings, the tarantula curled up on herself despondently. The creature gave the impression of being slightly deflated, and to Jon’s surprise, he knew exactly what the problem was.

“She’s dehydrated,” he said. “Did you change something in the terrarium?”

“I-I’ve been out of town for a few days. Had my neighbor feed her and look in on her.”

“He must’ve forgot the water. Give me a moment.”

Jon popped  into the stocking area, coming back with a plastic container lined with damp paper towels.

“Put her in there,” he ordered, securing the ventilated lid once Martin had deposited the living nightmare inside.

“Will she—will she be alright?”

“Almost definitely,” Jon said.

Before Jon knew what was happening, he was enveloped in a warm embrace, face squashed against a worn cable knit jumper, and he was pretty sure Martin was weeping into his hair. The chest under his cheek was warm and soft, smelling faintly of lavender and spiced tea. It was surprisingly comfortable, and for a moment Jon relaxed.

“Thank you,” Martin said, finally releasing him.

“I, er—it’s not a problem,” Jon said, straightening his glasses. “Anyway, I should get back to...you know.”

“Oh! Right! Do I owe you anything, for…?”

“Oh, no. Free of charge.”

With one last hug, Martin fled the pet store, monstrous spider in hand.

“Since when do you let people hug you?” Tim quipped from the lizard section.

“Piss off,” Jon ordered, returning to his shelf of vitamins.

The smell of lavender and tea stayed with him for the rest of the afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: 99% of problems with exotic pets are due to husbandry. Before you get an exotic pet, make sure you have the right setup, humidity, temperature, diet, and all that.! Okay, I'm off my soapbox. I consulted Gregory Lewbart's [Invertebrate Medicine](https://books.google.com/books?isbn=0813817587) and this article on [tarantula first aid](http://www.tarantulas.com/first_aid.html) because I know fuck-all about spiders. Rosamund is a [Brazilian black tarantula](https://i1.wp.com/www.tarantulaheaven.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/07/IMG_0287.jpg). They're big, beautiful spider friends, and now I want one. 
> 
> Another PSA: Always ask your vet first! Pet store workers are lovely and mean well, but your vet should be your primary source of advice, unless you can't find one that sees your pet's species (which is pretty likely with a tarantula).


	6. gotta catch 'em all (Pokėmon AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin's unusually clever spider Pokėmon catch the eye of the Magnus Institute, which "acquires" unusual subjects for study. Jon is sent to investigate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blame @cuttoothed for suggesting this one! <3 Bit more angst than the rest of these because Martin is a Lonely Boi.

Jon wasn’t proud of his job, but Dr. Robinson paid him well enough, and she was a harsh but fair employer. She decided which Pokėmon they would “acquire” for study, and Jon, well, acquired them. Most of the Pokėmon didn’t seem to mind as long as they were fed and treated well. Jon knew all too well how difficult it was to find a legitimate job as a Pokėmon behavioral researcher. The Magnus Institute had been his last resort.

Usually Gertrude made her requests by email, but occasionally she delivered them in person, as she did one day over tea.

“I’ve been hearing some interesting rumors, Jon,” she said.

“What sort of rumors?” he asked. Hopefully no more gossip about Tim’s love life. He wasn’t prepared for a repeat of the Nurse Joy incident.

“There is a trainer in Tundra City whose Pokėmon are displaying signs of above-average intelligence. Making decisions for themselves. Winning matches despite being smaller and weaker than their opponents.”

“Interesting,” was all Jon said. Inwardly, his mind was racing with possible explanations, each more tantalizing than the last. A genetic mutation? Nutrients? Or perhaps some sort of trickery? He very much wanted to know.

“I’d like you to follow Mr. Blackwood and secure at least one of his Pokėmon for study.”

“Of course, Dr. Robinson.” He bent to collect her empty teacup and saucer, placing it on the silver serving tray.

“The dossier is on your desk. And Jon?” she said, stopping him. 

“Yes?”

“Prepare for trouble.”

He smiled. “Of course, Dr. Robinson.”

* * *

Martin Blackwood was possibly the dullest man Jon had ever met. Or, well, not met. Stalking was probably a better word. Stalking for professional purposes. Professional stalking.

So far he knew Martin was an awkward, soft-spoken man who lived with his mother in a dreary little flat. He wore ghastly, eye-searing jumpers and seemed to spend most of his time at home. The reason for this became apparent when he saw Martin escorting his mother to a doctor’s appointment: she was painfully thin and usually needed help walking the few steps to the car. He was patient and solicitous with her, but she did her best not to look directly at him. Jon filed that bit of knowledge away for later consideration.

When Martin wasn’t at home with his mother, he worked at the local library, where he was cheerful but fairly inept. Jon witnessed him misfiling several books while chatting with patrons, and on one memorable occasion, watched him trip and topple over an entire shelf of paperbacks, laughing awkwardly as a co-worker helped him up.

Other than that, it was mostly lonely trips to the grocery store. He was friendly enough at work, but he didn’t seem to socialize much. Jon never saw him with one of his Pokėmon in public, and he was beginning to think he had the wrong man when he saw Martin stumble upon a spinarak being chased by a flock of spearows.

“Go away! Shoo!” Martin shouted, flapping his arms at the spearows. He was a rather tall man, and while the spearows cawed at him, none were willing to approach.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” Martin asked the creature.

Jon watched him kneel to address the spinarak, carefully inspecting it for wounds. His stomach churned as Martin ran his hands along each chitinous joint, cooing and telling the creature what a darling it was. The final straw was when he kissed the top of its head, making it chitter happily, and Jon whimpered.

Martin’s head whipped around, the spinarak momentarily forgotten.

“You’re the man who’s been following me,” he said softly.

“No, I’m not,” Jon blurted out.

“You’re not very convincing," Martin said, smiling. His eyes crinkled at the corners. "But if you need something, all you have to do is ask.”

“Why spiders?” Jon asked impulsively.

“Because people are afraid of them,” Martin said, stroking the spinarak’s head. “It’s not even their fault, but people hate them. I know what that’s like.”

“Why are yours so clever? What do you do?”

Martin’s face shone with pride. “So you’ve heard of my darlings? You can meet them, if you like.”

Jon very much did _not_ like, but he did have a job to do, after all, even if it was an appalling one, and he still wanted to _know._

Martin turned to the spinarak again. “D’you want to come home with me, little guy? I’ve got just enough space for a friend like you.”

The spinarak chittered eagerly, and Martin collected it into a red and white pokėball.

* * *

The Blackwoods’ apartment seemed perfectly normal at first glance: a frilly sitting room, a cramped kitchen, and two small bedrooms.

“Mum’s not feeling well today,” Martin said, glancing at one of the closed doors, “but they tend to stay in my room.”

Then Martin released the spinarak and opened a portal into Jon’s worst nightmares.

Martin’s bedroom was crawling with spider Pokėmon: an ariados, a galvantula, and another, larger spinarak. They all chittered as Martin approached, scurrying up to greet him like dogs. Jon retreated instinctively, clutching the door frame.

“Hello, lovelies,” Martin greeted. “Did you miss me?”

Martin’s face lit up as he petted each one, allowing them to crawl over his body. Jon gripped the door frame so hard the wood creaked.

“Are you ready for story time?” Martin asked, sitting down on the bed. The creatures gathered around him. One even crawled to the bookshelf, carrying a small volume in its fangs and depositing it in Martin’s lap in exchange for scritches.

Looking around, Jon noticed more details. The room was covered in brightly covered posters, littered with toys and puzzles seemingly designed for spider limbs. Martin had all but constructed a spider kindergarten.

“Good lord,” he murmured.

There wasn’t anything special about the creatures: it was the disarmingly innocent man before him, reading to them as if they were his children. 

“How would you like a job?” Jon asked.


	7. in sheep's clothing (werewolf AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin has always spent his moon the same way: dosed with sedatives and locked in a soundproofed flat. When a paranoid Jon traps him in the archive, Martin fears the worst is about to happen.

Martin glanced down at his watch, swearing softly. It was far too close to moonrise for comfort. By this time, he usually preferred to be safe and snug in his (locked, sound-proofed) flat, washing down tranquilizers with tea and biscuits, as he had every month since he hit puberty. At this rate, he had just enough time to get home, as long as nothing delayed him too long.

It had been a long week. Jon was sinking further into paranoia, and Tim into bitterness. Martin and Sasha were trying to keep it all together, but Martin could feel his little family falling apart around him. Between that and the steadily rising call of the moon, he was a nervous wreck.

Sighing, Martin began packing up his messenger bag (one notebook for work and one for scraps of poetry that came to him during the day; his favorite pen, decorated with pink cartoon cats, which he refused to stop using no matter how many times Jon lectured him on professional conduct; the Polish poetry anthology he’d been reading over lunch; a tape recorder; and his lucky spider plush, Rosamund), when he heard the door to the Archives open.

“Hello, Martin,” Jon said softly.

“H-hi, Jon! I was just going.” Martin lifted his bag to demonstrate, slinging it on his shoulder and flashing what he hoped was a disarming smile.

“Were you?” Jon asked, raising a brow. “I don’t recall dismissing you for the day.”

“I’ve just got some, er, business to be attending to, you know. I’ll be back bright and early tomorrow, I promise!”

“No,” Jon said, “I don’t think you will.”

There was a subtle menace in Jon’s tone, something that made Martin shiver despite himself, though not in fear.

“W-why is that, Jon?”

Jon smiled triumphantly. “I’ve locked us both in here, Martin. You won’t be leaving until I say so.”

Martin felt his stomach drop.

“No, no, Jon, you’ve got to let me out!”

“Why should I do that, Martin?” Jon asked. “Why should I allow you to keep hiding things from me? You’ve done it long enough.”

“There are some things you don’t want to know, Jon!” Martin cried, wrapping his arms around himself in a vain attempt to contain the panic rising inside him.

“I find that hard to believe.”

Martin bolted for the door, grabbing the handle and shaking it hard. It was bolted from the outside, he could feel it, and he had no hope of breaking the lock. There were no windows in the archive, nor other doors.

 _“Please_ let me out!” he begged.

“You’ll be interested to know I set your watch backwards by two hours,” Jon said. “Whatever nasty business you’ve been up to, you’re already far too late.”

Martin clapped a hand to his mouth, unable to stifle a low whimper. Moon rise could happen any minute, and he hadn’t taken a single precaution. No pills, no locks, no distractions scattered about his flat to keep him from getting too curious about the world outside. He’d never spent a moon outside his home, and he knew exactly what his teeth and claws could do to a scrawny archivist. 

“Jon, please, get out of here! Lock me in here, but I can’t—I don’t want to—” _hurt you_ , he couldn’t bring himself to say.

Jon brandished a tape recorder. “I’ll gladly take your confession," he said.

“You don’t understand! I—” Martin stopped, doubling over as the first spasms overtook him.

“Martin, what are you—?”

“Jon, _run!”_

The last thing he saw before the moon took him was Jon’s eyes, round with terror.

* * *

 Some cruel part of Jon had enjoyed the look of dawning horror on Martin’s face as he realized he’d been caught. It was a relief to finally see proof of what he’d suspected for so long: someone in the Archives had been lying to him, for a very long time. It was someone else’s turn to be afraid.

He’d already noticed Martin was prone to leaving early certain days. On those days, he wore a tight expression on his face, and he was even more distractible than usual, prone to spilling tea on anything in a five foot radius. He’d been expecting denials when he cornered Martin, perhaps even an attack, but he’d been unprepared for the distorted voice ordering him to _run_ as Martin’s eyes grew dark, brown irises blooming to drown the white, his teeth growing long and so very sharp.

After that, the change was too quick to follow, limbs stretching and twisting, skin sprouting swathes of reddish-brown fur. Soon the room was nearly filled with a very large wolf. It stared straight into Jon’s eyes.

“Good lord,” Jon murmured. Before he could stop himself, he reached out a hand to touch the fur on the back of the wolf’s neck. It was surprisingly soft. He wondered if Martin’s real hair felt the same.

Jon screamed as the wolf immediately pinned him to the floor with one massive paw. He hit the floor hard, feeling hot breath against his skin as it snuffled at his hair and clothes, dripping fangs too close to his bare throat. There was a wild smell to the beast, something that felt completely unnatural in this place of stone and dead wood. Its fangs were nearly two inches long, sharp and ready to tear his skin.

The wolf opened its mouth, and Jon had nearly consigned himself to his fate when a huge pink tongue licked a line up the side of his face.

“S-stop that!" he cried. "It tickles!”

Martin barked, licking him again and again as Jon squirmed and tried to escape. When he finally let him up, his tail was wagging like a dog’s. He barked, butting Jon’s hands with his enormous, shaggy head.

Jon was a cat person, but...this wasn’t bad, he thought, burying his hands in the plush fur.

The rest of the evening passed in relative peace, with Jon reading statements while the enormous beast napped at his feet. Occasionally Martin got restless, and he’d toss him a packet of crisps or let him play fetch with whatever was handy, but it was surprisingly peaceful.

When he retired to the small cot in the back of the archives, the wolf draped itself over him like a blanket. He shouldn’t have allowed it, but the warmth and pressure were incredibly soothing, and he found himself feeling more relaxed than he’d felt in months. Years, if he was honest. As he drifted off to sleep, he wondered briefly if Martin was always this warm.

* * *

Martin woke slowly, stretching and snuggling against the warm body next to his. The blanket was scratchy, but he was incredibly comfortable. He was barely even sore. He didn’t recall ever feeling so content after his moon, but—

 _His moon_.

_Jon._

Gasping, he flailed his limbs in an attempt to rise, nearly knocking his companion to the floor. It took him a few moments to fully grasp the situation.

He was, in fact, naked. His clothes hadn’t survived the change. Worse, his limbs were tangled with those of his boss, who thankfully wasn’t maimed or being digested in Martin’s stomach, but this was still pretty fucking bad, all things considered.

“J-jon,” he whispered.

Jon wrinkled his nose, rolling over to bury his face in Martin's chest. He wrapped himself around Martin like a sleepy octopus, and Martin considered whether it was possible to actually die from embarrassment and longing.

“Jon,” he repeated, nudging his boss’s shoulder.

After a moment, Martin finally gave up, burrowing down into the blankets. Jon gave a satisfied sigh and rubbed his hand sleepily across Martin's chest, fingers tangling in the sparse hair. 

"Good boy," Jon murmured without waking up. Something in Martin's chest melted. 

He could deal with the consequences later, he decided, tugging the blanket up over Jon's shoulder and closing his eyes again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who has supported me so far in writing these ficlets! They've been an incredibly fun exercise, and a way to get something creative done while dealing with the business of balancing work with being chronically ill. I love you all! This is the best fandom.
> 
> Incidentally, I couldn't get [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_FA85RO89HA) out of my head while writing this ficlet. Nor [this one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fIPvljWfH00). You know Tim plays them on repeat when he finds out about Martin's secret, and leaves dog toys everywhere, which Jon quietly pockets for the next moon. 
> 
> I don't think I've mentioned it, but for those who are curious, the series title is from Voltaire's _Candide_ , in which the optimistic Pangloss keeps insisting we live in the best of all possible worlds. What could be better than a world with a Martin in it? 
> 
> Finally, if you would like to see a particular AU, let me know. If an AU catches your fancy, you're also free to run with it. <3


	8. don't say i never did anything for you (spa AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon's cuticles are a disgrace, and Georgie's had enough. Thankfully, she knows an excellent manicurist...

Jon scowled as Georgie led him into the little shop, bells ringing as the door closed behind him. The sign read _Eye of the Beholder,_  with a large, stylized eye in the middle that would look more at home in an occult shop than a beauty salon. The place was full of overstuffed Victorian chairs, with a waiting area dominated by a carved wooden table. The table was covered with so many intricate, interwoven lines that Jon couldn’t look directly at it without risking a migraine.

The woman behind the counter jumped to her feet, wrapping Georgie in a warm embrace. Jon shifted away so as not to get caught in the crossfire.

“Hey, there, sexy! Back so soon?” She bestowed a kiss on Georgie’s cheek before releasing her.

“Not for me, I’m afraid.” Georgie said, kissing her back. “Jon, you remember Melanie?”

Jon did remember Melanie, and from the scowl on her face, so did she.

She looked him over from head to toe. “You know we’re not miracle workers, right? I don’t think this chap even owns conditioner.”

Georgie laughed and smacked her arm. “Leave Jon alone. It’s not his fault he’s naturally gorgeous.”

Jon felt himself blushing despite himself, not sure which of the two was more embarrassing. He turned to scrutinize a shelf of skin creams, all with uncomfortably suggestive names, and wondered if it was too late to flee.

“Are you Jon, then?” someone interrupted.

Jon turned around and looked up. And up, and up. The man who’d rescued him was so tall Jon felt his mouth go dry. He was wearing a jumper long enough to skim his thighs, with a pair of leggings and a belt slung low over his hips. Both the leggings and the jumper were adorned with cartoon cats.

“Y-you must be Martin,” he said, shoving out a hand stiffly.

Martin smiled warmly, taking his hand and shaking it. His hands were enormous, but they cradled Jon’s gently as he held them up to carefully inspect his nails, one at a time. Jon felt himself flush.  

“I still don’t see why I need a manicure,” he muttered to Georgie.

“I won’t force it on you,” Martin said, “Though I can see you like to keep yourself neat. Wouldn’t you like your nails to match the rest of you?”

The look Martin gave him was so earnest that Jon could do nothing but nod, following him meekly into the studio as Georgie cheered and Melanie quietly heckled him.

“Thank you for giving us a chance,” Martin said, directing him to sit in a plush chair. “May I see your hand?”

Jon awkwardly proffered his right right, and Martin inspected it again. Then he took a pair of silver clippers and began carefully trimming his nails, holding each finger in a delicate grip.

“You’ve got surprisingly health nail beds,” Martin commented as he began to smooth the edges with a file.  

“Er...thank you?” Jon said.

“Long fingers, too,” Martin continued, gesturing for Jon to surrender his other hand. “Do you play an instrument?”

“I play the piano, actually,” Jon admitted. “Just as a hobby. Nothing serious.”

“I bet you’re brilliant,” Martin said, giving him another soft smile. Jon looked away, muttering a denial.

Once he was done filing, Martin brought him a pair of bowls to soak his hands in, water laced with sweet-smelling oil.

“This feels ridiculous,” Jon complained as the scent of lavender wafted around him.

“What’s ridiculous is waiting thirty years for your first manicure,” Martin said, then flushed clear to the tips of his ears. “Erm. Sorry.”

“Touché.”

Martin chuckled, lifting one of Jon’s hands out of the water. Then he did something complicated with Jon’s cuticles, which may well have been witchcraft. He topped it off by buffing his nails until they gleamed. Even Jon had to admit they looked better.

“I don’t suppose I can talk you into polish?” Martin asked, rubbing oil into his cuticles.

“You cannot,” Jon confirmed.

“Will you at least let me do the hand massage?” Martin asked, flashing a shy smile. “It’s included in the fee.”

“If you must,” Jon said.

Martin pumped a handful of lotion into his palm. Then he took Jon’s hand again, and the world fell away.

Jon had never realized how good it could feel to have his hands touched, the perfect mix of softness and pressure. Martin’s hands were incredibly warm as they massaged his joints, using his thumbs to work out knots he’d never realized he had. He worked his way up to Jon’s elbows and then down again, until Jon was floating in a haze of comfort. When Martin popped Jon’s knuckles, he groaned out loud.

Martin flushed a deep pink, and Jon realized how suggestive the noise had been. He almost apologized, but he had a feeling that might have made it worse. Instead he let himself forget it, drunk on the warmth and movement of Martin’s hands.

Finally Martin took both his hands in his, squeezing them gently before letting them fall to the table.

“I hope you’ve enjoyed our session. Are you pleased with the results?”

Jon looked down at his hands. He’d never thought about it, but they looked good without the ragged edges and split cuticles, gently rounded and shining. It was neat, but not too neat, as if Jon simply had naturally perfect hands.

“I am,” he said honestly.

Martin smiled sweetly, leading him back into the lobby. Georgie insisted on cooing over his nails, even snapping a picture on his phone, which he prayed wasn’t going on social media. Even Melanie had to admit they looked good.

“Would you like to book another appointment?” Martin asked shyly.

“Do you, erm. Do you just do nails, or other things?”

Martin brightened. “Well, I also do facials and pedicures. You’ve got great skin, but everyone can use a little boost. I’m qualified in massage as well.”

Jon struggled to imagine what Martin could accomplish if given access to the rest of his body. He’d willingly sell a kidney for a neck rub.

“I’ll take all of it,” Jon said impulsively.

“Oh!” Martin bit his lip. “Erm. Do you have a preference as to whom you see?”

“I only want to see you.”

He heard giggling in the background, and suspected he was going to get a lot of ribbing once they got home, but he didn’t care.

“I’ll, er,” Martin licked his lips, sneaking a glance at Jon. “I’ll go ahead and book it.”

Jon walked away with a full slate of appointments scheduled, and a bottle of scented lotion for his hands. He was almost out the door when Melanie slipped him a small piece of paper.

“Don’t say I never did anything for you,” she said, dismissing him with a shove. Georgie blew her a kiss.

He looked down to see a phone number, scrawled next to Martin’s name and the words, _Hurt him and you will die._

Jon felt himself flush to the roots of his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I confess, manicures are one of my favorite indulgences despite being a bog-dwelling swamp creature.
> 
> If you have an AU you'd like to see, let me know! Also, if one of these AUs catches your fancy, feel free to run with it.


	9. duet (musician/neighbors AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To say Martin didn’t get on well with his neighbor was an understatement.  
> Well, that wasn’t quite right. Martin got on with _most_ of his neighbors quite well. Except Jon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The people have spoken, and pianist!Jon has entered the fray. Thanks so much to everyone who has encouraged me on this little adventure through AU Martin-land. <3

To say Martin didn’t get on well with his neighbor was an understatement.

Well, that wasn’t quite right. Martin got on with _most_ of his neighbors quite well. He liked to think he was the sort of person anyone would want to live near, the kind of person you’d feel comfortable coming to for a cup of sugar, or to get something from a particularly high shelf. Most of his neighbors seemed to feel that way.

But then there was Jon. He only knew the man’s name because their landlord, Michael, had greeted him once. He didn’t even know which unit was his. Martin had nothing against him, personally.

But Jon _hated_ Martin.

It all started when Martin noticed a spider on the landing. It was outside Professor Robinson’s flat, and Professor Robinson did not take kindly to spiders. Martin was bent over and had just caught it in his hands when something slammed into him hard.

In his hurry to get to work, Jon had tripped right over him. In the ensuing chaos, Martin wound up groaning on his back, and Jon fell to the floor, getting a faceful of spider on the way down. The resulting scream had been bloodcurdling, and worse, had attracted no less than three curious neighbors. To this day, Tim Stoker from 4C still whistled the Spiderman theme whenever he passed them in the hall.

Things got worse from there. Like the time Martin accidentally tripped the fire alarm making pasta because he got distracted when he stopped to write down an idea for a poem. It wasn’t _his_ fault Jon had been in the bath and only had time to throw on a towel. In December. Or that Mr. Lukas-Bouchard from 3A had leered until his husband slapped him with the rolled-up newspaper he’d been carrying. Before taking a moment to stare for himself.

Or the time Martin had been carrying a crockpot full of chicken soup for Tim when he’d come down with the flu, and he’d tripped on the stairs, upending the entire pot over Jon’s head.

Martin was beginning to think they were cursed.

There was one neighbor, however, Martin really _liked._ Martin was friendly with everyone, with the exception of Jon, but his favorite neighbor was the one in the flat just above his.

He didn’t know their name, or what they looked like. He just knew they played the piano, and  sometimes when Martin was lucky, they’d leave the windows open.

The pianist’s tastes were eclectic. One day they might play a brooding nocturne. The next, it might be a mazurka, followed by a fizzy pop number from the radio. Sometimes Martin even caught snatches of hymns, or jingles from commercials.

All Martin knew was that they had a deft hand and an impeccable ear, and that they played with a sensitivity that made Martin _ache_. He found himself hovering by the window most nights, hoping to catch them playing.

It was on such a night that Martin caught the strains of a familiar song, a soft and mournful melody that reminded him of long nights as a teenager curled up in his bed with headphones, staring at the ceiling.

Without thinking, he opened his mouth and let the words come. _“Sing me to sleep, sing me to sleep. I don’t wanna wake up on my own, anymore…”_

He closed his eyes, letting the melody carry him along.

_“There is another world, there is a better world, well, there must be…”_

Slowly, the melody wound to a stop, and Martin realized what he had done. He clapped a hand to his mouth, staring out the window in mute horror. God only knew what his pianist must think of him.

After a long pause, the music resumed. It took Martin a few moments to recognize another song by The Smiths; unlike the first, it hadn’t been written for piano. He paused, unsure of how to proceed, until the pianist cleared his throat expectantly. Martin felt his face grow hot.

The pianist stopped and repeated the section just before the vocals were meant to come in, and Martin opened his mouth to sing: _“Last night I dreamt / that somebody loved me. No hope, no harm; just another false alarm…”_

* * *

After that, their duets became a semi-regular occurrence. Martin found himself arranging his evening routine to coincide with his neighbor’s practice schedule. Thankfully Martin’s tastes were nearly as diverse as his neighbor’s, and the lyrics he couldn’t remember were only a hasty web search away.

He was looking forward to another one of their sessions when Mr. Lukas-Bouchard stopped him in the hallway. Well, one of them anyway. He was the taller one with the broad shoulders, who always dressed like an out-of-work sea captain.

“After noon, Martin,” he said.

“Afternoon, Mr. Lukas-Bouchard.”

“Please, call me Peter.” He winked. “Mr. Lukas is my father.”

Martin flushed, trying not to read too deeply into the wink.

“I don’t suppose you have a few hours to help a pair of old queens out, do you?”

“You’re not old, Mister—”

“I told you, call me Peter. And My husband and I are positively ancient next to a strapping young lad like yourself.”

Now Martin was definitely blushing, and it only made Peter’s smile widen. Martin couldn’t help but think of the Cheshire cat.

“I-I’d be glad to help you, though. What do you need?”

“Glad you asked. My husband and I need your assistance...putting up some shelves.” Peter’s eyes sparkled with mirth. “He refuses to hire a professional, you see, but he’s never held a hammer in his whole life. Will you help?”

“Of course!”

They set a time to meet, and Peter promised him some of Elias’s famous tea cakes. It wasn’t until he was nearly upstairs that he remembered he’d already had plans. His pianist nearly always played on Tuesdays, and he didn’t want to think of his friend waiting upstairs alone with no one to sing for him. But they’d never even met. It wasn’t like he could phone him.

There wasn’t any harm in leaving a note, was there?

_Can’t make it tonight. Perhaps Thursday. Don’t suppose you’d be up for the Beatles? Cheers, your admirer from downstairs_

He couldn’t help but feel like an intruder as he crept up the stairs to slide the note under his friend’s door. God, he hoped he wasn’t being creepy.

That night, he helped the Lukas-Bouchards put up their shelves. He suspected his presence was merely decorative, since Peter spent half the time eyeing his arse while Elias shot his husband a series of increasingly incredulous looks, but the shelves turned out alright.

Thursday night, he heard the opening chords to Eleanor Rigby, and sang.

* * *

The practices continued. Martin’s connection with the pianist was threatening to become the most romantic relationship he’d ever had. He began to dream of what his friend might look like, and whether he had the long, elegant hands Martin would expect from hearing him play.

When the small post-it note appeared on his door, he didn’t think anything of it. Perhaps Georgie’s cat had got out again, or Peter needed more “help” with his shelves. It took him a moment to decipher the untidy scrawl.

_You know, it would be easier for us to hear each other if you just came upstairs._

Below the message was a time and date. Today’s date, in fact. Martin considered passing out, or perhaps dying on the spot. He deliberated. On one hand, he’d been desperate to know who his neighbor was for months. On the other, he risked ruining what was otherwise a perfect relationship.

Three hours later, Martin was upstairs, wearing his least wrinkled t-shirt. He’d tried and failed to tame his hair, finally settling on a messy bun, though more a few curls had popped free.

When the door opened, Martin stared in silent shock.

“What the hell are _you_ doing here?” Jon snapped. “I’m expecting company.”

“I, er—”

“Spit it out, I haven’t got all night.”

“You—invited me?” Martin squeaked out.

Jon blinked, then looked down at the note clutched in Martin’s hand. His face went as red as Martin’s must have been.

“I, erm. So I did.” Jon cleared his throat. “I—sorry.”

“It’s not a problem,” Martin said reflexively.

Jon looked him over for a long moment before his gaze seemed to soften.

“I. Well, I suppose you should come in,” Jon said. “If you’d like.”

“I-I’d like that a lot, actually.”

Jon smiled at him, a bit nervously. Martin had never seen him smile before. It suited him. Martin wondered if it was possible to die just from that when Jon opened the door.

“Come on in,” Jon said, and Martin did.


End file.
